She had no memories of the horror that had been. Only of the pleasures that had not. Like a battered soldier who thanks God that his life is still in tact, but then shakily stands to take in the carnage of the bloody battlefield, Mercy surveyed the damage and wept. That is the backhanded slap of epilepsy: the soft blessing of release and protective amnesia super glued to the stinging pain of what has been lost on the field.
The Wish Day That Epilepsy Stole (15)
Wishes For Mercy 